


There's A Nap For That

by goldenheadfreckledheart



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Napping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 06:54:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9589661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenheadfreckledheart/pseuds/goldenheadfreckledheart
Summary: Based on that post: "If you both agree to take a nap instead of going out, it’s a date."Or: The one where Bellamy and Clarke keep taking naps together. You know, platonically. See also: Let Them Rest.*"We usually end up on the couch with takeout, unless he cooks. Sometimes we nap.”“I’m sorry,” Raven interrupts, “sometimes younap?”“That’s not weird!”“Depends on how oftensometimesis.”“Like,” she stops to think, “three times a week, tops.”Raven looks supremely unimpressed. “I honestly don’t know what to say about this except that you guys are like, whatever the nap version of friends with benefits is.”Clarke glares halfheartedly. “So like, just friends, you mean?”





	

**Author's Note:**

> I started this before New Years and thought it would be done in like, three days. Oh how naive. But hey, here we are! Enjoy :)

Clarke doesn’t _plan_ to be alone on New Year’s Eve, but she also doesn’t plan _not_ to be alone--if that makes sense. She could fly back to Los Angeles and attend her mother’s extravagant corporate party, if she wanted to put herself through that. It’s definitely an option.

But she’s long since decided that it’s better to deal with the vague feelings of missing out on the New Year’s celebration over fielding questions about why she’s not following in her mother’s footsteps or, god forbid, whether she’s gotten over _“_ that whole sexuality thing _”_ yet.

So she calls Abby the night before the party, fulfills her yearly, good-daughter quota of well wishes and pleasantries, and calls it good.

And really, doing nothing on New Year’s Eve is kind of the best thing that’s happened her, stress-wise, in the last six months.

She works in the graphic design department for an uber-trendy website that facilitates commissions for freelance artists, which makes it an incredibly lucrative avenue to get her name out there in the industry. It just also happens that the company is _very_ concerned with staying up-to-date with aesthetic trends, and has her changing logos and web layouts on a weekly basis.

It’s the kind of somewhat crappy, over demanding job that she feels weirdly excited to have, because it means her mom isn’t paying people to make her life easier.

But it _has_ been running her to the bone, so she’s positively delighted to do absolutely nothing for a night.

Or she is until she finds out that Bellamy also doesn’t have plans for New Year’s Eve.

“…but Bell’s gonna be around to take care of Athena, so that’s nice,” Octavia is saying, socked feet propped on Clarke’s lap, stroking the aforementioned cat curled at her side.

After spending Christmas with her brother, Clarke’s ex-roommate and her boyfriend, Lincoln, are heading out to his family for New Year’s. Clarke had been about to offer to watch Octavia’s cat for the duration of the trip, and the news that her brother will be around to do it piques her interest.

“Bellamy’s going to be here for New Year’s?”

Octavia rolls her eyes knowingly. “Yeah, he is. But don’t worry, I’m not gonna force you two to hang out. Learned my lesson on that one.”

“No, I was just going to say… It wouldn’t be terrible to get dinner or something, since we’re both here. _Not_ ,” she hurries to correct, when she sees Octavia’s eyes widen, “like a date. More like a _‘we’re the only part of our friend group that’s around, so we might as well hang out’_ thing.”

Octavia pushes out a breath with an expression that doesn’t quite look convinced, but she relents. “Fair enough. I’m just happy you’re finally admitting that you don’t hate each other.”

“I never _hated_ him,” Clarke grumbles, under her breath. Octavia just laughs.

* * *

“I hear you’re spending New Year’s Eve alone,” Clarke says, dropping down on the couch next to Bellamy, at their group’s annual belated-Christmas get-together.

He stiffens beside her. “What of it?"

She smiles a little, an attempt at reassurance. It’s fair to say that this differs from their normal pattern of interaction, mostly in that it doesn’t involve shouting. “Nothing. I’ll be here too. I figured we could do something together.”

He looks surprised at the offer, which, okay—it’s not like they’ve ever been the people in their group to seek out one-on-one time. But she really doesn’t think that they ever hated each other. They just had a hard time getting past a bad first meeting. Their conversations consisted mostly of biting comments or stupid arguments, but refusing to call him her friend had been more a pride thing than anything else.

Because, really, there is no downside to being friends with Bellamy Blake. He’s more of a mother hen than anyone else she’s ever met, and also just really fucking smart. She could talk to him for hours—she’s definitely argued with him for that long—and it’s a toss-up between which she enjoys more.

So while he and Octavia might be surprised by her idea that they spend the holiday together… she just has a good feeling about it. They could be really good at this friends thing, she’s sure.

“Unless you like being the sad person who deliberately chooses to be alone on New Year’s,” she prods with a sharp grin. Never mind that it’s what she’d been planning on, three days ago.

He rolls his eyes halfheartedly, reaches over to steal her wine glass and take a swig. “I’m not a sad person.”

She retrieves the glass with a scowl, elbows him in the side for good measure. “Then I guess we both have plans now.”

He grins, and it definitely doesn’t make her heart beat faster. “I guess we do.”

They exchange gifts with the rest of the group later, and Bellamy gives her a stupidly nice set of paints. The ones she’s been wanting. She has to resist bowling him over with a hug.

They’re definitely friends.

He opens her present later: a couple (much less expensive) biographies that he’s been rambling about for months but refuses to buy for himself, and a sketch of him and Octavia, copied from the photograph that sits on his sister’s windowsill that Clarke knows is his favorite.

He just stares for a second, and she can’t hide her smile. Leaving Bellamy Blake without words might be her new favorite thing. But before she can even tease him about it, he’s got an arm around her waist, pulling her to his side with a gruff, “Thanks, Clarke.”

She snakes out an arm to give him a quick squeeze back, and leaves it there when he doesn’t move his from her back. She even leans her head on her shoulder for a second, because _why the fuck not?_ They’re friends, and it’s Christmas. Excess affection is acceptable. Encouraged, even.

She doesn’t step away until Miller catches her eye with a waggle of his eyebrows.

“I’m gonna grab some water,” she tells Bellamy, and makes sure to flip off Miller on the way to the kitchen.

* * *

Clarke has to go back to work for the few days before New Year’s, because apparently it’s the time of year that the company makes the most transactions, and god forbid the website doesn’t have digital snowflakes slowly drifting down the screen (“Think of how many customers we’d lose without the _snowflakes_ ,” her coworker, Roan, deadpans to her after the 4th hour of the project.)

So she nearly forgets about her plans with Bellamy until he texts her the day before.

 

**Bellamy:**

so how formal are these plans I’m being coerced into?

do I need to dress up

She smiles down at her phone.

**Clarke:**

again, you’re welcome for saving you from your sad life

but no, don’t dress up

come over at 5 and we’ll figure out what we’re doing?

**Bellamy:**

thanks for your concern

5 works, see you then

have fun at work

**Clarke:**

do my best

 

Unsurprisingly, her boss has her working on last minute edits at home on New Year’s Eve. She’s only just finished up and collapsed on the couch with some tea when Bellamy knocks at the door.

His first words to her, once she drags herself to the door, are, “You look exhausted.”

“Aren’t you charming,” she responds, waving him inside and heading back to the couch.

“Sorry,” he says, dropping down beside her. When she meets his eyes, he looks concerned.

“I can feel you mothering. Stop that.”

He grunts in offense. “I am not _mothering_.”

“Great,” she says. “Then where do you want to go for dinner?”

“Dunno,” he sighs. “Somewhere casual that won’t be crowded tonight.”

She musters a smile. “Where we don’t have to see like, five couples propose on New Year’s Eve?”

He huffs a laugh. “Exactly.”

“There’s a pretty good variety of restaurants at the strip-mall down the street. You wanna Yelp it?”

“Sure,” he says, pulling out his phone.

Clarke flips mindlessly through her recorded shows while he does that, settles on one of the intense baking competitions that never fail to put her to sleep.

It’s so… companionable. She keeps thinking about how they’ve never done this before, and how remarkably _easy_ it is.

Eventually she switches channels, when one of the judges’ needlessly disparaging remarks get on her nerves.

“Hey, what gives?” Bellamy says, from beside her.

“One of the judges reminded me of my boss,” she says on a yawn. “And, hey, you’re not supposed to be paying attention anyway. Did you decide where we’re eating?”

“What’s wrong with your boss?” he asks. She’s not sure if he’s ignoring her question, or if he legitimately didn’t process it.

“Nothing different from normal boss stuff.”

The look he gives her says she’s not convincing. Which—she’s didn’t even know he could tell when she’s smoothing things over. It’s kind of a lot.

“They had you working today, didn’t they?”

When she only responds with a dismissive shrug, he prompts, “You want to talk about it?”

“Weren’t we going to eat?” she asks, pushing up from the couch to dump out her now-cold tea.

It comes off much more overly-dismissive than she intends. Because… it’s not that she _doesn’t_ want to talk about it, but, it’s New Year’s, they’re supposed to be doing typical New Year’s things, right? Celebrating, not complaining.

“I’m not hungry yet,” he calls, so she can hear him from the kitchen. “Just… complain to me about your job and then we’ll go get food.”

It’s really not the worst offer she’s ever received. She’s just kind of surprised to get it from him.

She comes back from the kitchen. “You really want to know?”

“Pretty sure people who get together on New Year’s Eve actually talk about their lives.”

“You don’t know that. I’m sure lots of people just stare at baking shows and enjoy the respite from their,” she waves a hand, “you know, troubles.”

“So you do have troubles, then.”

She levels him a look. “You’re going to be so bored when I tell you about them. They’re _so_ first-world, Bellamy,” she exaggerates on an eye roll.

His response is surprisingly serious. “Then that’s on me. I asked.”

It’s certainly not something she would have expected from him when they’d first met. When accusations of _ignorant privilege_ and _willful pessimism_ were tossed back and forth in nearly every conversation.

“It’s really not that bad,” she starts, flopping down next to him. And then, when he gestures that she get on with it, she relents. “Fine.”

As much as she failed at making it seem that way, she _really_ doesn’t think of it as a big deal. Her boss over-works her, but the final product is always good, even if it’s just _animated snowflakes_. And yeah, her vacation time isn’t great, but she’s young, and it’s a job that will get her places, build a foundation for her career. Doing a little extra work now to ensure that won’t hurt.

It does look like it hurts _Bellamy_ a little, though, judging from the way he winces at the mention of her pitifully few vacation days.

They must talk about it for a good forty-five minutes, and she finds herself, miraculously, actually feeling a lot better about it.

He asks about her co-workers, who she actually does genuinely like, and she tells him about the project she’s been put in charge of in the coming year. Her boss has, debatably, given her _too much_ responsibility, but it’s still more of a plus than a minus.

By the time the conversation peters out, Clarke is mostly horizontal on the couch, feet on Bellamy’s lap without any tangible memory of how they got there.

“Jesus, it’s really running you down, isn’t it?”

“Mmhmm,” she manages around a yawn. “I’ll get up in a second though, promise. We need to eat.”

“Nah,” he says, “We’re not going out.”

She startles a little, but not enough to actually sit up.

“What? Yes we are,” she says to the ceiling. “That’s the whole point of tonight. We’re not sad people, Bellamy.”

“Have you ever considered that your persistent need to emphasize your lack of sadness is kind of… counterproductive?”

“Fuck off.”

He just grins at her. Which is rude.

“We’re not going out,” he says, a little more gruff this time. “You need to get some rest. We can eat something here, or I can run out and get us something.”

“You don’t have to—”

“People who aren’t sad don’t refuse help from their friends, Clarke.”

“I thought you said that was a counterproductive goal,” she tosses back drily.

“Jesus, good to know your wit still works when you’re half asleep.”

She smiles smugly into a pillow. “I’m great at multitasking.”

“Clearly. You want Thai?”

She considers arguing again, but she _is_ pretty tired, and Thai does sound pretty good. She’s still not spending New Year’s Eve alone. That’s something.

“Yeah, Thai is good. Thanks Bellamy.”

“You’re welcome.”

She’s half asleep by the time he comes back with food, but she musters enough strength to help him spread it across her coffee table, and then dig in.

She puts on another cooking show when they’re done, but her eyes are drooping before the first five minutes are done.

“Go to sleep, Clarke,” Bellamy says, when she jerks back upright for the third time.

Too tired to argue, she just leans back against the armrest with a halfhearted, “Wake me up when it’s time for the ball drop.”

* * *

When she groggily comes to, the TV is still on, tuned to some news station with the volume turned low.

She nearly forgets why she’s on the couch until she turns to see Bellamy’s sleeping form across the couch from her, his legs dangling off the couch where they would have come in contact with hers.

 _Mother hen_ , she thinks.

The clock on the DVD player reads 3:21 AM, which means… she can’t think of what it means, for a second.

It’s only after staring absently at the TV, where anchors are talking about the first baby of the New Year, that she realizes they missed it.

It doesn’t bother her much, she finds.

She unfolds herself from the couch carefully, to go sleep in a real bed, and considers waking Bellamy, to send him home to his. But when she looks at him again, there’s some sort of _pang_ in her chest at the sight of how peaceful he looks. _It’s late now, anyway_ , she justifies. Better and safer for him to sleep here.

She gathers the throw from the end of the couch to drape over him, and nearly reaches down to pull his feet up onto the couch. She pauses before she does, though, at the thought that doing so might wake him up.

There’s something about having to talk to him when he wakes that scares her, and she isn’t eager to explore what it is at this time of night, foggy and sleepy as she is, so she leaves him there, and tries to convince herself it’s not as uncomfortable as it looks.

As she crawls into her bed, she idly muses that she didn’t kiss anyone, this New Year’s Eve. But it was still a pretty good night, all things considered.

* * *

The second time it happens is less premeditated than the first. Not that—she didn’t _plan_ to fall asleep on him the first time, but at least they’d been planning to hang out.

He calls her a week into the new year, on a Saturday morning, and it shouldn’t be monumental in any way, but she hasn’t seen him in a week and… fuck, she _misses_ him.

“Hello?”

“Hey Clarke,” his voice comes, a little distorted and awkward over the phone. Though the latter probably doesn’t have to do with the call quality. “It’s, uh, Bellamy.”

“Yeah,” she laughs. “I know. Caller ID is a thing.”

“Shut up,” he says, much more familiar than he’d been a second before. She can almost see his brows narrowing in playful annoyance. But then, just as quick, he’s back to awkward formality.

“I was, um – I was wondering if I could ask you for a favor.”

She straightens up in her kitchen chair. “What’s wrong?”

He gives a short laugh on the other end of the line. “And you say that I’m the mother hen.”

Clarke just rolls her eyes, and doesn’t bother responding.

“Alright so,” he starts after a moment, before rushing through the next words. “Feel free to say no, but my apartments is flooded, and I – I’m trying to find a place to stay while they fix it.”

Before he’s finished, she’s barreling over his words, fingers clutching anxiously at her knee. “Flooded? How bad is it? Is your stuff alright? Do you have to pay for it?”

He works so _hard,_ enough that she’d always known it, even when they weren’t friends. Because it wasn’t rare that Octavia would complain about how annoying he was when he was stressed and overworked. He’s halfway to a PhD, so it’s hard to imagine that anything has changed. She hates to think about him dealing with all this too.

There’s humor in his voice when he answers, “It’s not that bad, but it is the bathroom next to my room, and the plumber says it’s probably better for me not to be there.”

“Do you have to pay for it?” she asks again.

“Nah, it’s just old plumbing, so it’s not my fault or anything. The landlady’s covering it.”

She breathes a sigh of relief. Then another thought strikes her. “Wait, where are you going to stay while they fix it?”

The noise he makes on the other end sounds like a laugh.

“That would be why I’m calling you.”

It takes her a second to process, to realize that that was the first thing he’d mentioned, before she got swept up in the anxiety. To realize that he’s probably _not_ just calling to catch her up on unpleasant developments in his life.

“Oh.”

There’s a moment of hesitation, and the humor has left his voice when he speaks again.

“It’s just, uh, that Miller and Monty don’t have a ton of space, so I’d feel bad asking them. And Raven’s roommates might actually be insane, though I could ask them. But I thought maybe I could crash on your couch for a night? But it’s totally cool if--”

“What—no, sorry!” she says, interrupting, shaking her head as she gathers the words, “I didn’t realize what you were asking.”

“…is that a yes?” There’s a hint of hesitance in his voice.

“Yes!” she says, louder than necessary. There’s something warm happening in her stomach at the thought and she really needs to get it under control. “Come! My couch is yours. For as long as you need.”

 _As long as he needs_ only turns out to only be one night, and they hash out most of the details over the phone.

“ _Fuck,_ thank you so much. I know you’re busy with work so, you don’t—you don’t need to entertain me or anything.”

“Bellamy.”

“I’ll come over at night and be out of your hair first thing in the mor—”

“ _Bellamy._ ”

He stops, and she hears him take a breath. One he probably needed. “What?”

She smiles into the empty room. “You have grading and stuff to do, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool, I have a layout to work on. Bring lunch and we can work together?” she asks, her free hand worrying through a knot in her hair.

She’s not that worried that he’ll say no, but there is some small part of her that’s still in wonder of this _friends_ thing.

She hears him release a breath after a second. “Yeah, that sounds awesome. I’ll come around 1?”

Her grin is involuntary. “Whenever you’re ready.”

* * *

To be fair, they _do_ set out to be productive; Clarke at the small table in her living room and Bellamy on one of the stools at the counter attached to the kitchen.

Within half an hour, she moves to the couch, responding to Bellamy’s raised brow with a shrug. “Need to stretch my legs,” she says, making a show of flopping down on the sofa with her laptop, legs outstretched.

It’s another half hour before he joins her with a stack of papers, settling in at the other end with his back against the arm.

“Not enough back support,” he says, by way of explanation. “Plus I’m pretty sure you have the best couch ever.”

“Such an old man,” she says, which earns her a glare. “But yeah, it is pretty comfortable.” She shifts her legs to make space for his and he leaves aside his glare to give her a nod of thanks.

“You do have excellent couch choosing skills.”

“One of my many talents.”

With an amused scoff, he turns back to his work, and so does she.

He falls asleep first this time, which is probably fair, given the amount of shit he’s dealing with at the moment. She doesn’t notice right away though, and it’s not until her own eyes are starting to burn that she looks up from her laptop and notices his stack of papers on the floor, one arm hanging off the couch toward them and his head leaned lightly sideways against the back of the sofa.

She also doesn’t notice the soft smile on her face until she lifts her hand to cover a yawn. Her eyelids droop even as she drops her hand and it’s almost on autopilot that she pulls the throw from the back of the couch and lays it over her feet, and effectively, his as well, before leaning back against her arm of the couch, halfway adjusting the pillow there before her eyes drift shut.

* * *

She wakes up to golden evening light streaming through the window.

It takes her groggy brain a second to realize that she’s awake because Bellamy is moving, and a second more to realize how tangled their legs have become, one of her feet wedged under his knee and the other resting against his opposite shin.

“Sorry,” he says, voice gravely and sleep-heavy, just as she’s about to move her legs, a flush beginning in her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.” He gestures between them where he’s reaching toward the blanket that’s fallen halfway off the couch. “My feet were cold.”

It’s suddenly _a lot_ , having him this close, with so much contact.

“You’re fussy with blankets, aren’t you?” she asks, a weak try at humor.

“Hey, it’s fucking cold in here,” he says, stifling a yawn.

She tries not to dwell on, like, his entire face. “I’m sorry, would you rather be sleeping in your actually _flooded_ apartment?”

He looks up at the ceiling thoughtfully, in faux-consideration.

“You’d be _underwater,_ Bellamy,” she says on a laugh.

He cracks a grin. “It’s not _that_ bad.”

“It’s bad enough that you’re _here_ ,” she shoots back.

Bellamy just rolls his eyes. “Yeah, ‘cause hanging out with you is such a hardship.” He looks away from her and shifts to cover a cough, which is just as well, because she needs a moment to digest the comment. Then he’s turning back to say, “But, okay, fine. You’re my hero.”

“That’s more like it,” she says, her grin smug. She leans over to grab the remote. “Cupcake Wars?”

“Hell yeah,” he says, then grimaces. “Hold on, my foot’s gonna fall asleep.” He reaches down to lift her foot off his leg for a moment. Before she has the chance to debate removing her legs from his entirely, he’s stretching his leg out and returning hers beside it.

“Good?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she says, knocking her foot against his knee, warmth growing in her chest. “Good.”

* * *

 

It’s stupid to pretend he’s not her favorite, after that.

Not that she didn’t like him before—even when she told herself she didn’t—but now she’s got the whole… _thing._ The Bellamy Blake friendship experience: casual affection, constant mothering, stimulating conversations when she wants them, and stupid debates when she’s looking for something lighter.

They hang out more often now and any given night of the week finds the two of them at one of their apartments, working or just hanging out. The amount of times Bellamy comes over to nap on her couch on the weekends is slightly alarming. In the best way.

“Your couch is magical, okay?”

“So I’ve been told.”

She loves it. Loves having him around. Likes the aura of comfort he brings with him.

The Friday night after he meets one of the many deadlines on the road to finishing his thesis, he’s slouched against her on the couch while they wait for it to be time to meet their friends. Clarke cards one hand absentmindedly through his hair while they watch Chopped.

“Aren’t we going for something relaxing?” she’d asked when he turned it on. “You’ve been stressed enough for the last, what? Two weeks?”

He frowns, makes a sound of dissent as he shifts against her shoulder. “I haven’t been _that_ stressed.”

Her laugh is tinged with disbelief. “Are you kidding? Should I pull up the string of text messages you’ve sent me? _Clarke, I hate history,”_ she imitates, _“Why did I do this to myself, Clarke? Ceasar can suck my dick, Clarke._ ”

“You only remember that one because you responded with like, sixteen eggplant emoji’s. Which,” he stops to lift his head and give her a look, “Weird.”

“Besides,” he continues, gesturing to the TV before she has the chance to tell him his history boner isn’t something to be ashamed of, “This is watching-other-people-fuck-up stress. It’s different from the possibility of ruining my entire career.”

She scoffs. Bellamy Blake is undoubtedly number one on the list of people _least_ likely to ruin his career. He’s too passionate and fucking _engaging_ to be turned down, if her opinion is to be trusted. And she likes to think it is.

“Fine. We’ll watch hopeful people fuck up and ruin their dreams if that’s the schadenfreude you need right now.”

He relaxes back against her shoulder with a huff. “Thank you.”

“Drama queen,” she murmurs, dragging a comforting hand through his hair.

An hour or so into the marathon, her phone buzzes and she leans over to pick it up. Bellamy groans, though whether it’s at the loss of contact or because he knows it’s bound to be Raven telling them it’s time to head out, she couldn’t say.

It is, of course, Raven, telling them to meet her, Monty, Miller, and Octavia at their favorite noodle place.

She relays this information to Bellamy, who groans again. “The one downtown?”

“Do we have another favorite noodle place?” she asks, tugging at a tuft of his hair that’s sticking straight up. “Why are you being such a grump?”

He frowns at her. It’s very puppy-like, and very unfair. “Weren’t you just saying I’ve been stressed out?”

“Weren’t you just denying it?”

He huffs a little, and she catches a hint of a smile. At least he _knows_ he’s being a drama queen.

“I was kind of looking forward to just chilling out tonight.”

Chilling out with _her._ It shouldn’t affect her the way it does. They’re best friends, of course he like hanging out with her.

“Because you’ve been stressed?” she teases.

“If I say yes, are you going to tell Raven we can’t make it?”

A second later, as if realizing something, he sobers. “You can go,” he says. “Obviously. I don’t want to make you miss out, I’m just… not up for it tonight.”

She can’t help a soft smile. “Yeah, okay. I’m pretty tired too. You just want to hang out here? Watch something mind-numbing?”

The relief on his face is unmistakable and it pulls at her heart. He grins. “Are you gonna be mad if I just fall asleep?”

She swallows. “Not as long as you don’t mind me falling asleep on you, too.”

“Go for it,” he says, shifting so now she’s the one leaning against him.

“Cool,” she shoots back, more casual than she feels. She shoots Raven a quick text, and then settles in against him.

* * *

It’s Raven who ruins it—or saves it, depending on your perspective—when they go out for their weekly coffee catch-up. She and Raven have been friends even before she’d met Octavia, starting their freshman year of undergrad when Raven had transferred schools to surprise her high school sweetheart, who had moved on to dating Clarke and apparently neglected to tell Raven about it.

They both kicked him to the curb, and Raven proceeded to be the best engineer their school had ever seen. She’s the most badass person Clarke knows, and that’s saying a lot, considering she’s friends with both Blakes.

“So, what’s going on with you and Bellamy?”

“What do you mean?” Clarke asks, thoughts already flitting ahead to the plans she and Bellamy have for the week, wondering what Raven is planning that she needs to run by them.

“Are you two dating yet?”

It’s not an exaggeration to say she almost chokes on her coffee.

“ _What?_ Why would you think that?”

“Is it really that surprising?” She raises an eyebrow. “You guys are always together when we go out. Though even _together_ might be an understatement.”

Clarke flashes back to a week ago or so, at the bar, where may have been an instance of… nuzzling involved. She feels her cheeks start to go red—but then, if she recalls correctly, it was definitely consensual on both sides. Consensual half-tipsy friendship nuzzling. Totally normal.

She shrugs it off. “He’s my best friend.”

“Yeah, and we’re all glad that you don’t just yell at each other anymore, but,” Raven hesitates, “okay, just… walk me through what you guys do when you hang out.”

“I don’t know, we mostly just stay in,” Clarke starts, wondering if she’s just humoring Raven, or herself as well. “We both work long hours, and making plans to go out is exhausting. We usually end up on the couch with takeout, or he might cook. Sometimes we nap.”

“I’m sorry,” she interrupts, “sometimes you _nap_?”

“That’s not weird!”

“Depends on how often _sometimes_ is.”

“Like,” she stops to think, “three times a week, tops.”

Raven looks supremely unimpressed. “I honestly don’t know what to say about this except that you guys are like, whatever the nap version of friends with benefits is.”

Clarke glares halfheartedly. “So like, just friends, you mean?”

Raven levels her an unamused look. “You and I do not nap together, Griffin. And I’d say we’re friends.”

“If you’re jealous, that’s all you had to say.”

“Honestly, this is really good, though,” Raven says, after flipping her off. “How to get with Clarke: A nap-based seduction.”

“Shut up.”

“You like him right?” Raven’s eyes are serious now, when Clarke looks up.

She makes a mental assessment. It feels too fairytale to say that she gets the best sleep when she’s with Bellamy, but that doesn’t make it not true. And that’s not even close to what she likes most about him. He’s smart, passionate, _kind_. Plus, if she’s being honest, holding hands? Making out? Not low on the lists of things she’d like to do with him.

She lets her head _thunk_ against their table. “Fuck. Yeah. I do. _Fuck_.”

Raven pats her shoulder comfortingly. “Sorry babe.”

She does appreciate the support. And it’s fair to say she that she might not have realized on her own.

“For what it’s worth, I think he probably likes you too,” Raven says.

“I guess I have to find out.”

“That would be the mature thing to do, yeah.”

“I hate when you make me do the right thing.”

“Yeah, me too. You’re a pain in the ass.”

* * *

“Hey,” Clarke says, heart in her throat, the next time they’re at his place on a weekend. “I was thinking we should actually go out for once.”

He doesn’t bat an eye. “Yeah, sure. Where were you thinking?”

“There’s a new sushi place downtown? It’s a little high-end, but I figure after eating so much take-out, we probably deserve it.”

“Nice. I’m always down for sushi. Tomorrow night?”

She grins at him, wide, and watches him blink in response. “Tomorrow night.”

 

**Bellamy:**

not to “throw it back” as the kids say but

how formal are these plans I’m being coerced into?

**Clarke:**

okay a) pretty sure it’s just “throw back”

but b) please don’t ever say that again

c) it’s sad to eat take out on your own bellamy, do u want to be sad??

(it’s formal-ish, but you probably don’t need to wear a tie)

**Bellamy:**

okay but I don’t eat take out on my own

I eat it with you

(cool, see you at 7)

 

She tries not to over think it while she’s getting ready. To start, it’s not even a _date_ , not to him anyway. Mostly because she was too chicken to broach the topic, but it’s better this way, she rationalizes. Things can’t get _weird_ if it’s just the two of them, Bellamy and Clarke, best friends, trying out a fancy sushi place.

She settles on a maroon wrap dress and her favorite boots, because the place _is_ nice. And if Bellamy happens to think she looks great along the way, then she’s alright with that, and feminism will support her choice.

He shows up at 7, as promised, and she’s suddenly a lot less concerned with how _she_ looks than the fact that he’s… unbelievable, honestly. Not that she doesn’t find him ridiculously hot on a daily basis, but _dressed-up_ isn’t a look she’s ever seen on him… it’s a lot.

She’s about to fake a cough, or do _anything_ really, to hide her reaction, when she notices his slightly slackened jaw and lingering gaze, which is, really, just _awesome_.

“Problem, Blake?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know you look amazing,” he says, hardly missing a beat, his cheeks tinged pink.

She ducks her head on a smile. “Thanks. You look great too.”

“Couldn’t have you being the only beautiful one,” he says, holding the door open for her to step outside.

She laughs. “Yeah, thanks for sharing that burden.”

“Anytime.”

Dinner is, largely, uneventful. She’s a little awkward at first, overthinking things, but then he starts talking about the weird grad student in his department who sucks up to all the professors, and all her stupid fears are gone; it’s just getting a ridiculously fancy meal with her favorite person.

She does insist on paying, because she’s the one who suggested they come, and she feels a little bad for _wanting_ it to be a date, without even asking him.

“Come on, Clarke, this place isn’t cheap. Let me pay half.”

“I told you, I suggested it. I’m paying.”

His brows narrow. “At least let me pay for drinks.”

“I swear, Bellamy,” she says, exasperated but grinning. “If you don’t let me treat you, I’m not going let you make me dinner anymore.”

It’s almost comical, how she knew that would make him frown. “That’s low, Griffin.”

“Yeah, I’m definitely the worst.”

“You are,” he agrees. Finally, he relents with a grin. “Fine. Thanks, Clarke.”

She smiles back. “You’re welcome.”

* * *

She’s yawning as they walk back from the metro, a remnant of having to be at work at 6 that morning.

He nudges her. “Hey. You work too hard.” It's the start to a familiar debate.

She grins, gives him a soft shove. “How many times are we going to have this argument? _You_ work too hard!”

“Because I have to, not because I’m having my talents exploited.”

Her expression softens. Not that she’s ever far from a soft look when she’s around him anymore. God, Raven was like, embarrassingly right.

“Aw, you think I’m talented?”

He blinks, a little surprised at the change of tone—a detour from their usual bouts of ‘who’s more of a workaholic’—but he’s not out of commission for long.

“You know I think you should be one of the people whose art they’re selling, instead of just doing the background stuff," he says, deadly serious. "Not,” he rubs the back of his neck, “that the background stuff isn’t important, but you deserve to be the one they’re catering to, not the other way around.”

 _God_ , she loves him.

She catches his hand, squeezing softly. “I’ll get there. Baby steps.”

He nods. She thinks he might be about to say something else, but honestly, it’s gone on long enough.

She lets go of his hand to take his arm instead, pulling them to a stop about a block away from his apartment.

“Cool, so if we’re done with that argument, I really want to kiss you now.”

His face goes blank. “What?”

Okay, so, he definitely didn’t know this was a date. Which is very understandable. Her confidence falters. “If you want to. It’s um—it’s an option.”

She thinks her heart might stop, the way he stares at her for a moment, jaw working. Finally, he lets out a shaky breath, and she might actually die of relief when she sees a smile play at his lips.

“Are there other options?”

He’s probably on board. She’s like, 80% sure. But just in case:

“Yeah, we could also go back to your place and pretend this didn’t happen.” Her smile is pretty convincing, she thinks, given how awkward that scenario would be after her proposition. “Chill on the couch, watch something dumb.”

“That sounds pretty good,” he says, serious, and she thinks she might actually have misread this, in the worst way—until he catches her hand in his, entwining their fingers. “Can we do both?”

She smiles so wide it hurts. “Yeah.”

With a grin matching hers, he pushes her hair behind her ear and leaves his hand there, behind her ear and the edge of her jaw, his thumb brushing against it. She’s the one to press forward, catching his lips with hers, but he’s quick in responding--after a sharp intake of breath--his free hand settling on her waist to pull her closer, warm and solid and perfect. She grins deliriously at his groan when she opens her mouth to him.

“ _Fuck_ , I’m so in love with you,” he says when they pull apart, his forehead resting against hers, breathing shallow. She can't help a quiet gasp, and his eyebrows twitch together. “Sorry, is that too much?”

“No,” she breathes, still grinning. “Raven called me out for being in love with you last week. She says it’s weird that we nap so much.”

“Napping with friends isn’t that weird.”

“That’s what I said." Her fingers curl into the hair and the base of his neck. "But also she wasn’t wrong, I’m definitely in love with you.”

His smile is blinding. “Cool. I love you,” he says, apparently just to say it again, before catching her lips again in another searing kiss.

They decide pretty soon, that they should head back to his apartment, instead of… making out on the sidewalk.

“So, just to clarify,” he says, swinging their intertwined hands between them as they walk, “I wasn’t projecting my feelings when I thought this felt like a date, right?”

She pulls him sideways to press her lips to his again, sweet. “Nope. I was just too chickenshit to actually ask you.”

She’s never seen him smile so much. “Cool. You didn’t need to be chickenshit.”

Clarke shrugs. “I know that now. But I didn’t want to ruin anything. You’re important to me, romantic or not.”

The look he gives her sends warm shivers down her back as his hand tightens on hers. “Okay, yeah. We really need to get back to my place.”

She laughs as he pulls her forward. “I know you like napping, but your favorite couch is at my place.”

“Yeah that’s not exactly what I was looking forward to.”

“Wow, my couch is going to be so offended.”

He kisses her again, once they're outside his building. “Yeah, I think we’ll survive.”

**Author's Note:**

> Was this like…an actually nauseating level of fluff? I can’t tell anymore.
> 
> I'm always around on [tumblr](http://www.goldenheadfreckledheart.tumblr.com)!


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